The Gamemakers
by Leo Federico
Summary: The story of the 74th Hunger Games, as told from the point-of-view of the Gamemakers. I've taken some creative liberties here since not much is known, so I hope you like it! All R/R's welcome!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

I'm walking down a pristine hallway within a very imposing building of the Capitol. The hall is decorated plainly, with a few portraits of presidents past every few feet and the occasional bust, but apart from those few embellishments this place is all business. There are no windows. No one outside is supposed to see what's going in here today until we're ready to tell them. The heels of my boots click loudly against the solid floor, as I make my way to the door at the far end. I'm dressed smartly, in a brilliant purple suit and my dark hair done just so. I need to make a good first impression on these people. I'm young, and they know it, and despite my new appointment to this office I doubt they'll respect me very much. My name is Felix Everton, and I was just named the newest Gamemaker.

I join a group known as the Senior Seven. These are the seven most senior Gamemakers, who actually design, oversee, and execute the Hunger Games. We make all the decisions, call all the shots, though our Head Gamemaker can overrule us all if he wants to. I think that might happen a lot with me, given my lack of experience. I'm told I'm relatively young to have received such a promotion, but clearly President Snow saw something in me or else I wouldn't be here. After the Senior Seven are the junior Gamemakers, those who actually sit at their stations during the games carrying out our decisions. It's a large group, though I have just been granted access to the smallest, most secretive, and powerful subset of it.

After what seems like a century I reach the end of the hall. There's a number pad to one side, and I punch in my six-digit access code. Smoothly, the door before me parts down the middle and allows me passage, as I take a small breath and walk across the threshold.

The room within is a stark contrast to the hallway I just left. For one, the place is packed. People walking this way and that, many of them looking harassed as they carry documents or drinks as others are giving orders. But the place has the aire of a controlled chaos; despite the finely dressed people headed every which way in various states of presentation, everyone seems to have their head about them and know exactly what they're doing. The room itself is sumptuously decorated with elegant columns, empire furnishings, and more ornate pieces of art. The space is very wide and round, divided by a barrier of frosted glass. Beyond the barrier I can see the silhouettes of people milling about, eating, and drinking.

"You look a little lost," I hear a voice come from my left.

I turn and see a woman walking towards me. Her red hair has an elaborate, sculptured look to it, and I wonder how Capitol woman always get their hair to do the things they do. She's fair skinned and dressed professionally in a green suit holding a large electronic pad in her folded arms.

"Is it obvious?" I reply, nervously. She nods. "I'm supposed to be looking for the Gamemakers," I say, withdrawing a slip of paper from my jacket pocket, "The Senior Seven, I think."

The woman chuckles to herself, though I don't know what's so funny, "You think?" she says, smilingly, "The Senior Seven are the highest ranking Gamemakers, the Head Gamemaker and his six deputies, but they don't waste their time for just anyone."

"I was sent by the President," I say, feeling a bit proud now, "I'm the new Gamemaker."

She raises her eyebrows and locks her free arm in mine, "Then let me show you to them. All the Gamemakers are out on the balcony, waiting for you, actually."

The woman begins to steer me through the crowded room, where she tells me her name is Horatia Greene. Apparently, she's the timekeeper for the games, and keeps records of the tributes as they progress in the arena, as well as being a sort of personal assistant to the Head Gamemaker. I make a crack about her last name being Greene and her suit being green, something she doesn't think is very funny. She leads me to the far end of the glass barrier where we walk through an opening and onto the balcony. The balcony is overlooking a gymnasium of sorts; the training center where the tributes had their general session earlier, though now it is empty.

At once she stops before a tall man with a pleasant face. He's also large, so much so in fact that the buttons on his purple waistcoat are straining to keep the weight back. But he sees Horatia and smiles, kissing her hand politely,

"Horatia, your beauty is always difficult to miss," says Plutarch Heavensbee.

"Whereas you are even harder to miss," she quips back, and the Gamemaker laughs, "Plutarch, this is Felix Everton. He's our new Gamemaker."

"Wonderful!" he says, shaking my hand vigorously, "We've been waiting for you!"

"Sorry about that," I reply, flexing my crushed hand, "I only just left the president's manor, and he can be very thorough when he wants to be…"

"Not to worry, Felix, not to worry," he says, airily dismissing my apologies, "Come, and let's show you to the others. Thank you, Horatia!"

Plutarch gives Horatia a peck on the cheek and she gives me a look that seems to say, "Good luck." I follow Plutarch through the balcony and roving avoxes carrying trays of food and drink. Plutarch grabs a pair of gilded goblets and hands one to me. I think it's strange to see people drinking so early in the day, but again, the Gamemakers have a reputation for making their lives as easy as possible. Besides, now that I'm one of them there's no reason I shouldn't enjoy a few creature comforts as well. I accept the glass of deep red liquid and take a sip. I expected something bitter, something that burned the entire way down, but it was actually very enjoyable. The drink was chilled and a bit sweet, something that I could see myself continuing to drink long after the games pass.

We come to a halt near the middle of the group. In the center of the balcony there are three men drinking and having an intense conversation. One of them is sitting in a high-backed chair with dark hair, a stern gaze, and an ornately trimmed beard. He, of course, was Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker and a man who needed no introduction. However, that didn't stop Plutarch. Nothing, it seemed, ever stopped Plutarch.

"Seneca, Nero, Caligula, this here is Felix Everton," Plutarch began, introducing me to the two Gamemakers, "He's going to be our new colleague."

"Felix," Seneca says to me, taking my hand in his and piercing me with that hard stare of his, "Glad you could make it."

"Yeah, I was held up at the President's Manor—"

"I am disinterested in the details of your inadequacies," Nero interjects, taking a drink from his goblet, and I catch sight of his hands. Living in the Capitol, one gets used to the various kinds of surgical enhancements people do to themselves. Nero was no exception: his hands had been completely changed to resemble some kind of hybrid between alligator claws and eagle talons. They were cold and gray, and his fingers were without nails. Rather, the fingers themselves came to dangerous looking points all on their own, "It makes no difference," he continues, "At least now we can get this over with."

The third man introduced himself as Caligula Tripplehorn, who at one point was a peacekeeper in his youth. He kept the peace in districts Four, Eight, Nine, and Eleven, and retired the service a lieutenant colonel. Standing a full head and shoulders over all of us, he bears the look of a bodybuilder gone slightly to seed. He was offered a position of Gamemaker as a reward for his service, and I wonder to myself how one makes the transition from peacekeeper to Gamemaker, "Felix, welcome!" comes his booming voice as he claps me on the shoulder, "I hope this won't be too boring for you."

"Not _too _boring," came a voice from behind.

I turn around to see a pair of women walking toward us, dressed in purple like the rest of us. The first had dark hair with purple highlights with a severe looking face. I could tell that at one point she had to have been gorgeous, but age had faded that beauty, with the lines of her face accentuating her black lips and smoke-like eyes. The other looked quite the opposite. She was a blonde bombshell if there ever was one, with a thick plait of golden hair that nearly fell to the floor. Her face was soft and her hands finely manicured. Her eyes, though, betrayed a golden sparkle, as her irises had been replaced with golden disks.

"How could we ever?" Plutarch asked, rhetorically, giving each of the new arrivals a gentle kiss on the hand, "Ladies, permit me to introduce Felix Everton, the new Gamemaker. Felix, these visions are Valentina Ravenwood and Cornelia Swann."

"It is not often we have the pleasure of such a handsome and stylishly dressed Gamemaker," the dark haired Valentina said, with the slightest and most playful of winks.

"Pfft, Handsome," Cornelia scoffed, appraising me like I was some kind of dangerous insect, "We ask for a Gamemaker and they send us a child."

"Now, Cornelia, he can't be that much younger than you," Valentina said, still keeping her covetous eyes on me, "How old are you, Mr. Everton?"

"Twenty-seven," I replied, taking a drink so as not to meet Valentina's eyes.

"And he's very fortunate to have been named Gamemaker so young," Plutarch said, looking over his shoulder, "Oho! And it gets better!"

No, it wasn't talking about me that made Plutarch sound so happy. At that moment, a pair of avoxes had stepped onto the balcony carrying a suckling pig on a sterling silver tray. They laid the massive and sweet-smelling boar on a table near the back of the balcony, and Plutarch was first to fill an empty plate.

"Alright, enough waiting," Seneca declared, "Are we ready?" He turned to face me, and I nodded feebly as I downed what was left in my goblet. A roving Avox stepped up at once and collected my empty glass before handing me another, and Seneca resumed his attention to the massive gymnasium below, "Excellent. Pay attention, Felix. The career tributes are always the ones to watch."

"Indeed. One, Two, and Four look promising, as always," Cornelia said, taking a seat.

"There's a quick little girl from District Five that I like," Nero said, taking another glass from an avox, "Clever too."

"You would like the smart ones," Valentina said to Nero, teasingly, "Intellect will always lose out to strength in the arena."

"Strength of another kind," Nero replies, helping Cornelia into her seat and taking his own, "Outfoxing someone can be just as valuable as facing them head on."

"Couldn't agree more! Brains can get you far in the arena." Plutarch said, sitting down with a plate of food.

"Brute strength tends to get you just as far, Plutarch," Caligula says, sitting down with a plate of food as well.

"A good balance of both might be better," I say as I also take a seat. Caligula throws me a sideways glance.

Seneca nods to someone off in the distance whom I could not quite make out, as though it were some kind of signal. In a moment, a loud tone sounds throughout the gym, a pair of doors open, and in walks the first tribute from District 1. He was tall, brown haired, and remarkably well built for a kid his age, though as Valentina might point out, he didn't look so much younger than myself. I withdraw a touchscreen device from my jacket pocket, click a few times and open the dossiers I was given of all twenty four tributes. Marvel is this one's name, and with a shrewd look about him he begins to deftly display his talents at a variety of stations. He was good, very good. But this was to be expected from a career tribute. His female counterpart was no different. She even drew a gasp from Cornelia. When Cato, the male tribute from District 2 came out, Valentina immediately perked up. I got the distinct sense that her…appetite was one that skewed young and was not easily sated. Nero looked calm and cool the entire time, taking the occasional drink, though I could sense his mind moving a mile a minute.

As the tributes came and went, the attention of the Gamemakers started to wane, considerably so after the District 4 tributes had their go. Though, to be fair, few tributes after District 4 could display anything worth noting. There was that clever and fast girl from District 5 Nero had mentioned, and an agile little jumper from District 11, but even then these girls were not very remarkable outside their sprightly talents.

By the time the male tribute from District 12 entered, I was the only person on the balcony paying even the slightest bit of attention. Every other Gamemaker, Seneca and Nero included, had stopped caring. Plutarch had busied himself with the suckling pig, now serving his fourth helping of the seasoned pork, while Valentina and Cornelia gossiped quietly in a corner near Plutarch.

Peeta was the name of the boy from District 12, or so my palm device informed me. He busied himself in the camouflage station, displaying a noteworthy ability to blend into the background flawlessly. This could be an adept defense mechanism if he survived later into the games, but since he did not even attempt at offense combat stations, I wrote him off as someone who would most likely die at the Cornucopia. Now, with only the girl from District 12 left, I was looking forward to this long exercise to finish.

She was a slight, vulnerable looking girl, from whom I did not expect anything spectacular. If her male counterpart was any indication, her display here would be dull to the point of agony. I saw her go to the archery station, and she quite easily hit each and every target with a dead bulls-eye. It was an impressive display, especially from someone from District 12, but arrows take time to fire, and I highly doubt that in the heat of hand-to-hand combat, her arrows will be of much use. So, making my final note I clicked off my device and picked up another drink from one of the roving Avoxes, joining Nero and Seneca in conversation.

Then, a few things happened in very quick succession. There was a sharp intake of breath down below in the gymnasium, a high-pitched whistling sound was heard cutting through the air, and in the flash of an instant I saw an arrow fly into the balcony and piercing the apple within the mouth of the pig. Such was the force of the arrow that it knocked Plutarch off-balance, and he fell backwards onto the table, collapsing it and making a mess all over himself.

Valentina and Cornelia both shriek. Nero looks scandalized, crushing the glass he was holding in his powerful hands. If he could, I think Caligula would have vaulted over the balcony and attacked her. I turned to look at the girl who let loose her arrow, and narrowed my gaze. Slowly, all the Gamemakers regained themselves and looked down at her, at this girl who did nothing but stare defiantly back. There was such a fire in that stare of hers that I thought it almost indecent to meet her eyes. I was suddenly very afraid for this little girl.

Her name was Katniss Everdeen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Katniss Everdeen."

The voice of President Coriolanus Snow was cool and pensive, like her name was some kind of abstraction. I'm standing in his large, lavishly furnished office done in bold, earthy colors. President Snow is sitting on one side of a stately and highly polished desk, and I am standing on the other. The high windows behind him have a breathtaking view of Agora Square and of the Capitol beyond. Night was falling now, and the office is dimly lit in the twilight of the setting sun. Word reached the President of what had happened with the girl from District 12 and demanded a report. As the youngest and newest Gamemaker, I was selected to meet with the President for what was sure to be a verbal thrashing. It's only been an hour since then, so I still feel a little rattled, but the President sat there calmly considering it as though I had just told him the next day's weather.

"And Seneca did nothing?" President Snow asks, dabbing a bit of blood away from the corner of his mouth, "Did Plutarch?"

"No sir," I replied, recalling all that had happened, "Deputy Heavensbee had been knocked to the floor, and Head Gamemaker Crane dismissed the girl after a long while."

"Hmm…" President Snow leaned back in his leather chair, hiding his face in semidarkness. At that moment, the smallest drop of blood tainted the white rose in this lapel. The rose was immediately removed and switched out for another that he withdrew from his desk, "And did the girl say anything?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"The District 12 Tribute," the President coolly repeated, "Did she say anything?"

I was thinking hard now about what happened after… "I don't think so, sir."

The President narrowed those snake-like eyes of his, "You don't _think?_"

I pause for a moment before responding with confidence, "No, sir. She did not."

President Snow stands up now, his arms folded behind his back as he looks out onto the skyline of the Capitol. It's always so hard to tell what he's thinking. I've only been a Gamemaker for a day, and have no idea why he does what he does. They say it's all to cement his grip on power, but how much more power can one man have? All of Panem is his, what does he possibly have to worry about?

"Thank you, Felix," the President says at last, "I'm sure you will make the _right_ decision when her score is assigned tonight."

"Yes, sir," I tell him, and bow myself respectfully out.

I walk from the President's office more confused than when I entered it. Given, I have only been Gamemaker for a day, but already I'm not exactly sure if I'm doing things the right way. Should I have had more information? Should I have compiled a better file on Katniss Everdeen? I run a hand through my hair and exhale heavily as I descend a grand staircase to the main foyer of the president's manor. The scores for the tributes are to be assigned tonight, as all of Panem sits down to dinner. So, deciding to leave my bewilderment behind, I leave the opulence of the manor and head back to meet with the other Gamemakers.

In the cool dusk that settles over the Capitol, I walk back to the training center, which is a surprisingly short walk from Agora Square. There's a plaza of sorts in front of the training center, dotted with faceless statues of artistic representations of anonymous tributes. What awaits me within the training center is a conversation I have always wanted to be part of: the Tribute Scores. After their trials earlier today, each tribute receives a score from one to twelve, twelve being the best, on how well they are expected to perform in the arena. The Senior Seven have the final word, with the Head Gamemaker able to override the group as a whole. It's all very secretive, and I will be part of it.

Getting a little excited now, I cross into the ultra modern building, making my way to the lifts at the end of the elliptical entrance hall. I wait moment before the door slides open, when none other than Gamemaker Nero is standing inside, still dressed in his purple garb from the day's training sessions. When his bright, gray eyes catch hold of me, he looks at me as though I were some sort of interesting curio, and again I can sense that mind of his analyzing me from head to toe.

"May I?" I ask, indicating that we share the lift.

"May you _what_?"

I chuckle a bit, thinking that he was being humorously sarcastic, but when Nero did not return my grin, I stop laughing at once, "May I take the lift with you ?"

"If you must."

That wasn't quite a yes, but I took it anyway. I entered the lift as the doors closed behind me, though I did not indicate which floor to go to since I figured both he and I were going to the same place. The lift started to descend, something I did not expect, and an awkward silence fell between us. Silence never sat well with me, and I begin to fidget ever so slightly in discomfort, though Nero looks as collected as ever.

"I never did catch your last name," I say, trying to break the tension.

"No, you didn't" he says after a sigh, "I thought it was a bit rude."

I look over to him and see he is carrying a device similar to the one I was using during the trials in his left hand, though this one looks much larger, about the size of a sheet of paper. I can see his right hand in the reflection of the steel walls of the lift, opening and closing his fist in a slow yet deliberate manner. I get the sense that he could cause some serious damage with those claws of his, "You know, I'm really excited for this meeting," I say, my own phobia of silence taking over again.

"Are you?" Nero asks, now facing me, "You're excited by the idea of assigning a value to a child's life?"

"I-I-" Nero's comment caught me off guard. I thought everyone enjoyed the Hunger Games, so I don't quite know how to respond, "I was just—"

"Making conversation?" He says, finishing my thought, "Listen Felix, I have seen half a dozen Gamemakers come before you, each more ignorant than the last. We risk as much as the tributes do trying to appease the President with the Hunger Games, and if we get it wrong, it will be the _last_ thing we _ever_ get wrong, understood?"

Nero's voice didn't get loud at all while he was talking, not once. It was impassioned, but it never got higher than a polite conversational tone. His free hand, however, moved quite a bit as he talked, and now it was contorted as though clutching an invisible ball. His cool demeanor chilled me to the bone as he bore his eyes into mine. His was a world-weary stare, and I silently wondered what had hardened it so. My shock must have been displayed on my face, because Nero simply scoffed impatiently as the lift came to a halt and the doors opened.

"Empires and their emperors come and go, Mr. Everton," Nero said as he steps out of the lift and begin to walk down the hall, "The only constant is power, and how to hold onto it once it's yours."

For the second time in one day I am left in complete bewilderment. There is a good deal more to this job than I was originally told, and I'm not entirely sure I'm cut out for it. The lift then dings and snaps me back as I narrowly hop through the closing doors and follow Nero's footsteps down the hall. I hang a quick left, and turn just in time to see him disappear behind a pair of double doors with guards standing on each side. As I approach, the doors open and permit me inside.

It's a simple conference room, with a highly lacquered oblong table set in the middle. The doors snap smartly behind me as I see all of the six Gamemakers I met earlier milling about the room. Plutarch shakes my hand and claps me on the shoulder as usual; Cornelia inclines her head at me snobbishly, though Valentina looks genuinely happy that I have arrived. Seneca is already seated and indicated that we should all do the same. Caligula sits across from me at the far end of the table, looking pleased.

"How did it go with the President, boy?" he asks, winking at me.

"Actually—"

"Nobody cares," Cornelia says, impatiently, "Let's get this over with. The sooner we rate the little lambs the sooner they can be slaughtered."

"All business and no pleasure, Neli," Valentina says playfully, to which Cornelia throws her a dirty, if utterly false, sideways glance.

"Getting started," Seneca said, marshalling the group again. A small panel in the table opens up before him, he clicks a few buttons and a screen opens up in the center of the table. Instantly, twenty-four pictures appear there as Seneca continues, "Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, with deputies Plutarch Heavensbee, Cornelia Swann, Valentina Ravenwood, Caligula Tripplehorn, and Nero Frost."

Frost. Got it.

"With our newest Gamemaker Felix Everdeen – er, Everton!" an awkward little silence passes, "Very well, first up, Marvel Gold, District One."

"I was thinking an 'eight' for him," Cornelia said, nonchalantly.

"That seems a bit conservative," Valentina says, as Marvel's picture is enhanced on the table. She moves forward a bit and manipulates the screen so his vital statistics pop up, "He's a career! He should get at least a ten."

"Just because he's a career?" Caligula says, "Frankly, I thought he could do better. Nine is the highest I'd give him."

"He was impressive with the spear at the hand-to-hand station," Nero says, looking over his file, "I think a nine would be fine."

"I agree, nine it is," Seneca said, finalizing the matter. He types a bit on his control panel, and a large red nine appears over his picture, and then minimizes itself so all twenty-four photos are now shown, "Next we have Glimmer Haverford, also District One."

"Ten," All of the other Gamemakers chimed at once.

A large red number 10 was superimposed on her photo and was instantly minimized along with Marvel's. And on this process went for a while, each tribute from each district being debated on how much they would be worth within the arena. For the most part, the Gamemakers all agreed (which was signaled by banging their hands and fists against the table), with a few exceptions. Valentina wished to give Cato from District 2 a perfect twelve because he would look good in a wetsuit, though she was raucously shot down (he later received a ten). Another disagreement came with the female tribute from District 5 named Renardette, the clever looking girl with red hair. Votes for her were all over the board, from two to ten. Eventually, Seneca won this battle, and she was awarded an eight.

At long last, came the two tributes from District 12. I think everyone in the room was as eager as I was to start talking about these two. Well, more so the girl than the boy.

"Let's see," said Seneca Crane, bringing up the next photo, "Next we have Peeta Mellark, District Twelve."

"Utterly dull," Valentina said, "I vote 'three.'"

"Ha!" scoffed Caligula, "Three?! That boy was throwing weights that are heavier than Plutarch!"

Plutarch laughed heartily, and banged his fist on the table in good humor, "Then the boy should get a thirteen!"

"Yes but that's _all_ he did," Cornelia says, looking very bored, "He was good at the camouflage, and is very strong. But it's going to take more than that to win in this arena. I say 'six.'"

"I don't know about that," Nero replies, going over Peeta's stats, "It's not that hard of an environment this time around. Those two skills might be enough to carry him far. I think an 'eight' ought to do it."

Caligula banged his hand on the table in approval, but was cut off quickly by Valentina, "Strong he is, yes, but I don't think he has what it takes to kill anyone."

"Wait until you see him backed into a corner," says Caligula, "Even a dog can summon murderous rage when it has nothing to lose."

"Still, I don't think he can be as cut-throat as some of the others. Six is my vote."

"Plutarch?" asks Seneca.

"Eight, definitely."

"Absolutely!" Caligula says, agreeing with Plutarch.

"Then it's settled," Seneca says, and a large red eight appears over Peeta's photo, "At last we come to our final tribute, Katniss Everdeen."

There was a full sixty seconds of silence before Valentina says, "Curious."

"How so?" asks Seneca.

"That an unspectacular girl with no real talents whatsoever tried to kill us."

"She's lucky we didn't have her arrested!" Cornelia hissed, looking at Katniss' picture like it was something obscene.

"It wasn't an assassination attempt, Cornelia," Plutarch says, playing with his pocket watch, "I think she was just trying to get a little attention."

"I can't imagine why," she replied, sitting back in her chair, "Anyone from District Twelve should be used to getting ignored."

Everyone but Nero and Plutarch hit the table with their hands. Nero was next to lean forward and examine Katniss' picture on the large in-table screen, as well as go over the list of her vitals. He looks the entire packet of information over carefully, and I can see his eyes darting this way and that, taking it all in.

"Whatever the reason," Nero says slowly, his words weighing heavy, "She's dangerous, and will need to be dealt with."

I turn and give Nero a quizzical look. He ignores me.

"She is going into the arena," Seneca says, as Plutarch looks a little uncomfortable, "I think the other tributes might do that for us."

"And I don't think she's that dangerous," adds Plutarch, "Unless you think she's going to be the next Enobaria Stone?"

"Hardly. I mean that her little display, if others manage to hear about it," at this, Nero looks at me coldly, "Might incite certain… stirrings."

"Especially if she wins," Cornelia adds.

Everyone around the table now looks uncomfortable. Cornelia is looking at her manicure, and Plutarch continues to fiddle with that pocket watch of his. There is some other meaning here and I have no idea what it is. They all know something I don't and it makes me a little nervous.

"Then we make sure that she doesn't," Valentina says, breaking the tension, "But how?"

"Like Seneca said, "Caligula responds, "The tributes can do it for us. All we have to do is make her a target. A big enough one to make sure she dies the worst way possible. It'll send a stronger message."

"Wait," I say, for the first time this evening. All the Gamemakers turn and look at me like I've just slapped them all in the face. I get a little shy at this point, but decide to just go for it, "You can't just make her a target because she's good."

"Not good," Nero corrects me, "_Dangerous_."

"Either way!" I reply, waving him off. I can tell this upsets him, but I continue, "I don't think the President would appreciate us singling out one tribute to make an example of!"

Cornelia's golden eyes are piercing through me like daggers. Valentina cocks up an eyebrow and starts chuckling to herself. Seneca looks away and sighs. Nero is doing that flexing tick with his hand again, and says grimly, "You have a lot to learn, Mr. Everton."

I'm a little annoyed that no one at the table had a rebuttal to what I had to say, like I was the only one who was concerned with making the games good instead of predetermined. This does little to stop Caligula from overlooking me completely,

"The question is the same," he says, "How do we make her a target?"

Seneca leans forward and starts typing away on his panel. Plutarch snaps his pocket watch shut just as Seneca finishes with the picture of Katniss Everdeen. Then, Caligula's question is answered as a large red number eleven appears over her photo.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I leave the conference room in a huff and walk briskly back to the elevator. When I step inside the lift I punch the button to take me back to the main lobby with such force I think I crack the button. I cannot fathom what just happened in there. I thought the Gamemakers were charged with stimulating the games, faceting them so that they would be a spectacle worth watching, not isolating one tribute who, in their minds, was _dangerous._ And dangerous how? In what way could a teenage girl be a threat to the most powerful people in Panem? How much could she do to them that they have to make an example out of her? I find it hard to believe that these grown men and women can be so petty. Okay, maybe I could expect this sort of thing from Cornelia, but it was Nero who first called her dangerous, and Seneca just went with it. And Plutarch hardly said anything! It just didn't seem very reasonable…

The lift eventually comes to a halt and the door dings itself open. I step out into the lobby, when I see Horatia stepping out of a lift of her own. A smile crosses her porcelain face, and walks to meet me, still wearing that green dress from earlier in the day. She kisses me politely on the cheek in greeting, which calms me down a bit, though I'm still very angry and confused.

"I just heard the good news!" she says, waving her PDA in her hand, "Seneca Crane sent me the list of tribute scores a minute ago, and I forwarded them to Caesar Flickerman. Can you believe that one girl from District Twelve? I was wondering how they were going to handle the whole pig thing."

"You saw that, did you?" I ask, sighing slightly.

"She caused enough commotion," Horatia said, her smile faltering a bit. She could tell I was worn out, and placed a hand on my shoulder, "Look, I know the job can be stressful, but it will pay off, trust me. Come on, let's grab a drink somewhere and watch the scores. It'll be fun to catch people's reactions to that one girl."

"Katniss."

"Bless you."

"No. Her name is Katniss."

"I know her name," Horatia replies seriously, now looking a little concerned, "What does it matter? With a score like that, she's as good as done for."

"But why?" I ask her, running a hand through my hair, "I don't get why they singled her out like that."

She gives me a concerned look and a little sigh, looking about the elliptical lobby as though making sure we were alone. We are, so she speaks, "Who knows," Horatia says, shaking her head a bit, "The Senior Gamemakers have always been proud, maybe this is their way of putting the District Twelve girl back in her place. I mean, these kids are just playthings, aren't they?"

I understand her completely, but I still feel a little strange about this. I wonder if the President knows about this, if he shares the same view on the matter as the Gamemakers. Again, I am wearing my heart on my sleeve as Horatia chuckles to herself a bit.

"Look," she says, "You have too high-minded a view of what being a Gamemaker means. They're people with a lot riding on every Hunger Games they design. Believe when I say they are far from perfect…or fair."

I look now into Horatia's eyes, searching for a sign but finding none. I decide discussing the matter further was not going to help, so I drop it, "You're right," I say, feigning a smile, though I don't think she's buying it, "Thanks for the invite, but I think I need some rest. I'll see you tomorrow for the interviews."

Horatia stays behind in the lobby as I leave the training center, and walk back to my apartment. I walk through verdant parks and streets lined with bars and restaurants, each packed with people getting ready for the big reveal tonight. After a few minutes, my feet carry me into an elevator and into my well furnished flat. I collapse on the sofa and watch Caesar Flickerman reveal the tribute scores one at a time.

I kept thinking about Katniss, and how a sixteen-year-old girl could cause the President and the Gamemakers this much distress. I chalk it up to my own lack of experience in these matters, though as the broadcast ends and the screen clicks off, I wonder if the tributes from District 12 and their team are aware how big of a target has been painted on Her back.

The following day I get escorted along with the rest of the Gamemakers around the large studio that will be used for the tributes interviews. It's a cavernous, dark space, with what could best be described as opera boxes lining the walls over the audience seats below, one of which will be reserved for the Gamemakers. Caesar himself is leading our little tour, explaining how the facility is brand new and will serve as the new home for his nightly variety show, after it is inaugurated by the tributes tonight. He's charming as always, eliciting laughter from all of the Gamemakers, except Nero, I notice. Still, this is my first time being behind the scenes of Panem's most watched show, so I allow myself to enjoy it.

"Looks like someone's finally coming around," Cornelia sarcastically says to me at one point, and I do my best to hide my happiness for the duration of the tour.

Workers and Avoxes pass this way and that, getting the place pristine for the show of shows that everyone in Panem is guaranteed to watch. Banners are raised, jumbo screens are erected, and the floor of the stage is shined to a polish so high the light reflecting off of it is blinding.

"Not to worry," he says to me, noticing how I am squinting at the floor, "Our tributes will be able to navigate the stage with ease. No sense in getting them injured before their time, after all!"

Again, all of the Gamemakers except Nero chuckle as he leads us on. The rest of the day passes unremarkably. Most people I pass on the streets are all talking about the pending interviews tonight, especially after all the attention District 12 has been getting over their tributes. That evening I dress in my finest suit, again making sure my dark hair is perfect, and I am taken by private car back to Caesar Flickerman's new studio.

I have never been invited to a gala quite like this. The main lobby of his new television temple is packed with people; all dressed to the nines, more so than people in the Capitol usually dress. An avox passes me and I take a glass filled with bubbly purple liquid and sip. Again, it's exquisite. Only the best for the top brass of Capitol citizenry.

"Felix, you look so chic," I hear from behind me.

Horatia is walking towards me looking stunning in a shimmering silver evening gown, her red hair again elegantly structured as only a woman in the Capitol could make it. She's carrying a handbag of matching silver, and as she approaches she does a little twirl. She looks genuinely happy, as I grab another glass of the purple drink from an avox and hand it to her.

"Horatia, you're a _vision,_" I say, impersonating Plutarch. She laughs, and accepts the glass from my hand. We clink our glasses together in a small toast and take a drink. She really does look very pretty tonight.

"Glad to see your mood has improved from last night," she says. I get the sense she's fishing for my reaction, and in truth I'm still very perplexed by the other Gamemakers' reactions, but talking about it here with so many people doesn't seem smart.

"I guess I've decided to wait see how it plays out," I tell her in a small voice, taking a sip.

"If you say so," she says, sighing politely. Again, she manages to see right through me, "You know, you're a terrible liar. You might want to work on that, you'll last longer," Horatia smiles at me and I laugh. She's doing her best to make light of my frustration at the Gamemakers, and I appreciate it, "Come on, walk me to my seat."

"How about I walk you to my seat, instead?" I tell her, as we link arms.

"Felix, I'm a Junior Gamemaker. I can't sit with you."

"Want to bet me whatever it cost to build this place that no one is going to say anything?" I tell her, as we follow the crowd up a flight of carpeted stairs to the box seats above, "Besdies, we're allowed to bring a plus-one."

We pass the entrance to a few of the boxes before finding the one reserved for the Senior Seven. There's a peacekeeper standing guard outside, and as Horatia and I approach, I see Nero entering the box as well. He looks to Horatia, then back to me, cracks a smirk, cocks up an eyebrow and walks into the box. We follow him in, and sit in the plush seats reserved for each of us. Horatia and I sit next to Valentina and her date, a tall, handsome man with dark skin and shockingly silver eyes. Horatia recognizes him instantly as he stands to greet her, displaying his full, considerable height.

"Luc, I didn't know you were coming!" Horatia says, giving him a hug.

"I wasn't, until Tina invited me," Luc replied, in a smooth voice.

Did he just call Valentina, 'Tina?' Given what I know about Valentina and her views on men, I wonder how close he really thinks he is with her.

"Of course," Horatia says smilingly, "Luc this is Felix Everton, our new Gamemaker."

Luc shakes my hand firmly, though smiles warmly as though he's known me for years, "Lucretius Holder, but everyone calls me Luc."

"Lucretius Holder," I repeat, letting go of his hand, "The Sponsorship Officer?"

"I see my reputation precedes me," he said, smiling in spite of himself.

"I just always thought that would be the hardest job of all, getting the right sponsor gifts to the right tributes at the right times," I tell him, as the three of us all regain our seats, "Logistically it must be a nightmare."

"The logistics are easy," he tells me, "But sometimes, especially for the poorer districts, their mentors want things for their tributes when they don't have enough given by sponsors. But that can make for a more dramatic games, too!"

"Oh dear," Horatia said gravely, looking at who had just walked into our box.

Turning to see what Horata was looking at, I see Cornelia enter the box, and on her arm was none other than Finnick Odair, a victor in his own right and the most eligible man in the Capitol. Valentina caught sight of the pair of them together, and looked at Cornelia with jealous daggers. Cornelia returned Valentina's ire with a brilliant smile, knowing full well the sensation her date would cause. Finnick either played oblivious or really didn't notice, because he engaged Plutarch immediately in an intense (and quiet) conversation.

"Valentina absolutely _adores_ Finnick Odair," Horatia whispers to me, "This can only end badly."

"_FINNICK!"_ Valentina hissed, striding confidently over to where he and Plutarch were talking, "So THIS is the reason why you denied me tonight? To come here with _Cornelia?!_"

Finnick looked around, chuckling nervously, "Cornelia did ask me first, Tina—"

"_Don't you dare call me Tina!"_

"Don't be jealous, Valentina," Cornelia said, slithering her way back onto Finnick's arm, "Green just doesn't suit you. Besides, I think Finnick might enjoy more _youthful_ company tonight." At this point, Plutarch stealthily made his way back to his seat as Valentina's eyes got as round as dinner plates.

Thankfully, we were spared what I'm sure would have been an explosive dialogue between Valentina and Cornelia, for at that moment the house lights flashed and dimmed, signaling the start of the night's broadcast. Valentina resumed her seat next to Luc, whom she seemed not to notice again for the rest of the evening. Luc simply smiled and rolled his eyes at us, apparently indicating this was all old hat by now. Horatia stifled a laugh as the stage lights came up, and Caesar Flickerman commanded the attention of the audience.

The interviews were pithy yet engaging, as only Caesar could make them. The career tributes were naturally the easiest to like, full of the confidence that wins many sponsors and insures victory. The tributes from the middle and outlying districts were nice enough, though more than one looked far outside their element. Still, with Horatia on my arm, I rather enjoyed myself. That is, until Katniss Everdeen took her turn next to Caesar Flickerman, reminding me of her fated decision and my internal unrest. I didn't know if it was a ploy, but her utter innocence in the ways of the Capitol and the story of how she volunteered for her sister was really winning over the crowd. The dress most certainly was all part of the plan to reinforce the whole 'girl on fire' bit. Still, it was working.

But the time she left and her male counterpart replaced her, I was starting to think she might have a decent chance at getting far in the games, despite everything we've put in her way. The boy, Peeta, seemed quite the opposite of Katniss. Anecdotal, honest, charming; I think Luc might have his work cut out for him with this kid. Caesar got him to start talking about his love life back in District 12, at which point Horatia and every other woman in our box started to swoon and sigh.

"So there _is_ someone back home then?" Caesar asked, goading Peeta on.

"In a manner of speaking," he admitted, "Though she didn't even know I existed until the Reaping."

"Well I think, if you win this thing, she will have to go out with you, right folks!"

The audience erupted in cheers and cat calls.

"Winning might make that difficult," Peeta said, not looking a little uncomfortable, "You see, Caesar, she sort of…came here with me."

Cornelia and Valentina both gasped, and Horatia put a hand up to her mouth is surprise. Nero, conversely, is smiling devilishly. I turn to Luc who looked just as surprised as I did, though I'm sure everyone across Panem was just as shocked. Was it real? Was this part of their plan? Would it backfire? The two tributes from District 12 continued to throw us off, and I wondered if this little stunt would earn Peeta our contempt as Katniss' did. Then, all at once, all the other Senior Gamemakers get up from their seats and start to leave the box. I follow suit, grabbing Horatia by the hand insisting she follow with me.

Outside in the hall, we are completely alone. Caligula runs his hand though his hair and sighs, Seneca and Plutarch have already been talking when I join them, and Corenlia and Valentina look so taken with this news I think they might burst into tears.

"How wonderful!" Valentina says, as I join the circle of them with Horatia and Luc behind me, "Star-crossed lovers! This is better than the score we gave the girl!"

"It will make killing her more difficult," Cornelia says.

"Then they will have to die together," Caligula chimes in.

"Not necessarily," Seneca says, stroking his beard, "I like the visual of one of them dying in the others' arms. Romantic tragedy would play well."

"Or they could both live," Plutarch says. No one replies. If he could have, I think the unforgivable, scandalized stare of complete ire Nero gives Plutarch would have set him on fire.

"Can that happen?" I ask. Again, silence.

"We're looking at this the wrong way," Nero says coolly, flexing his fingers slowly, "These are star-crossed lovers, meaning they are in fate's hands, and we are their fates."

Seneca narrows his gaze at Nero, though slowly starts to nod. Caligula too, looking very pensive, but agreeing. Cornelia runs a contemplative tongue across her lips, considering Nero's remark. Plutarch looks silently at the floor, fingering that pocket watch of his, so I get the courage to ask, "Sorry, but I don't follow."

Nero turns to me and grins, fulfilling a condescending tone that I saw coming from miles away, "They will have to kill each other."


End file.
